


Raising Bedlam

by JeSuisPrest1321, sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, BDSM, Drama, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-28
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-03 07:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8703034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeSuisPrest1321/pseuds/JeSuisPrest1321, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Bedlam - –noun1. a scene or state of wild uproar and confusion.       2. Archaic. an insane asylum or madhouse.Bethlem Royal Hospital, 1863 -  home to the "morally insane," "socially incurable," and "mentally disordered." Where better for Dr. Jared Padale's research than this cesspool of London's worst fears? The doctor hopes to escape his own demons by immersing himself in those of a new patient with a tumultuous past: Jensen Ackles, incarcerated for attempted murder under the pledge of insanity. How far will Jared go to save Jensen from himself? And will Jensen come quietly, or will he force Jared to realize that perhaps Jensen isn't the only one who needs saving?





	1. The Guilty

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
> **Author's notes:**
> 
> The evolution of the mental health system has a long and sordid history. For thousands of years, doctors, clerics, and laymen alike have taken equally different approaches to the treatment and aid of the mentally ill. As the development of new breakthroughs in science and technology paved the way for brand new cultural and social advancements, the treatment and protective policies for mental patients remained a leftover of a darker time.
> 
> Bethlam Royal Hospital is one of the world's oldest mental health institutions. Despite some of the work done by reformers to try to improve horrendous conditions in the facility, the name "Bedlam" became synonymous with filth, insanity, and disease. Patients were often the subject of cruel treatment and ridicule. Towards the middle of the 18th century, as the development of understanding anatomy and physiology began making leaps and bounds, gravediggers, doctors, and research scientists alike profited from the sale and trade of human bodies, often procured in secret from hosiptals, workhouses, and the city morgue.
> 
> Despite its long and spotted history, today Bethlem's facilities are known for breakthough advancements in mental hygiene, and have an exemplary record of patient care.
> 
> For more information about Bethlem and the history of the treatment of the mentally ill, please check out:
> 
> http://www3.niu.edu/acad/psych/Millis/History/2002/Treatment.htm#bedlam%20treatment
> 
> http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/books/article-1042885/Bedlam-brutal-truth.html
> 
> Please be aware that this piece of fiction may have disturbing elements dealing with rape and descriptions of medical procedures. We do not own Jared or Jensen, (although should they find themselves up for sale, we would go into debt buying them.)
> 
>  

 

**_London, England - 1863_ **

**_Bethlem Hospital_ **

 

The keening was almost inaudible as the final stitch slipped into place, closing the skin over the still sluggish bleeding. The knuckles of the maimed hand were almost white, although whether that was due to the blood loss or the vise-like grip the porter had on the patient's hand was anyone's guess. The table reeked of the ammoniac smell of urine and the cheap strong smell of distilled liquor, mixed with the cloying copper smell of spilled blood.

Doctor Jared Padale sucked in a breath of air through his mouth as he nodded toward the porter. The bloom of rosy blood into the surrounding tissue as the porter's hand lifted caused the remaining clawed thumb and forefinger to clench reflexively, then relax.

"I'm thinkin' he's all done in, Doc." The porter hooked a dirty thumb towards the patient's face, relaxed in unconscious oblivion.

"That he is, Smythe. He'll need a quick bandage and a scrub down and then you can put him back on the Ward."

The porter grunted an assent before ringing the summons bell. Two other men entered from the corridor, moving to grip the patient by the shoulders and haul him towards the door.

"Gentlemen." The Doctor's voice was steel, although almost so soft that they strained to hear his words. "I shouldn't want to hear that any undue harm has come to Mr. Chase, shall I?"

"Nah harm, sir. None t'all." Smythe's dirty face split into what could have been a beatific grin.

Padale stiffened with the force of a biting retort.

"Ah, Dr. Padale. A moment of your time, if you please." The voice of the visitor brooked no argument. Jared turned to face Dr. Henry Wickham, Hospital Director and Lunacy Commissioner.

"Of course, sir. I'll be just a moment." The water by the hearth was lukewarm, but clean enough for a quick wash. Shedding the filthy butcher's apron over his shirtfront, he straightened to face his unusual guest.

Dr. Wickham's nose was wrinkled in distaste as he took in the scene. The room was dim, foul with the odors of surgery and rot. The walls of the gloomy apothecary's office were inclined to sweat in the summer heat. In the warmer months, the stench of the subterranean morgue was almost unbearable. The filthy operating table with its rudimentary instruments was the cleanest item in the room, by far. By contrast, the Commissioner's starched white waistcoat and collar gleamed.

 "Perhaps this conversation would be better suited to a more amicable environment, Dr. Padale."

... ... ... ... ...

They moved into the next room, a small operating theater, echoing and empty.

"I admit, Dr. Padale, that I might have had my misgivings concerning your appointment here. Given your rather _unorthodox_ education, one might have assumed that your research would have taken you elsewhere. Was the patient I just saw one of your research subjects?"

"No, sir. The unfortunate's name is Liam Chase. He's one of the paid wards, sent in by his family from Kent over three months ago. I'm told he spends most of his time in restraints on Ward E."

"An incurable, then?" The Commissioner's brow lifted in derision.

"It would seem to be so, sir. There was an incident involving his orderly yesterday. I've been informed that during his weekly bath he tore into the throat of his bathing attendant, grievously wounding him. I operated to remove three sets of distal phalanges from his hand this morning. I was told that he caught his hand in the door of his cell. Quite by accident, of course."

"Indeed." The word spoke volumes, and no response would have been necessary.

Bethlem Royal Hospital was a cesspool of filth and disease that had been rotting in its own iniquity for centuries. The locals called it "Bedlam," a colloquialism that was used more often than its true name. The foundations of the first hospital had been built on the remains of a monastery, and had served as a medical establishment for more than 500 years. It was the popular belief that mental disease was curable; the common practice of mental institutions had been based on a principle that the mentally diseased mind was "disordered;" thus, a restoration of natural order would also restore the mind.  Bethlem Royal was the only place in all of England that served as a public institution for those who could be classified into such a category, though many of the methods employed throughout the centuries often posed more harm than benefit to the patients.

There were several wards, each divided by sex and class. Strict schedules, as well as harsh rules and restrictions, were rigidly enforced. Orderlies required no special skills or training; it was hard enough to find any that practiced sobriety. As the hospital was often ill-equipped and understaffed, many patients suffered hours, if not days, shackled to walls or pallets on the floor. In case of their expiration, those in the medical profession were presented a wealth of fresh subjects for study. Body theft and dissection had been the vogue trade for almost thirty years; the parish poor were often tied in sacking and buried three deep in a shallow grave.

Jared gritted his teeth against the rush of memory; his own father had taught anatomy to his students in their manor home in Poland with freshly bought corpses from the local workhouse. The times had been different then, and the local magistrate was more than happy to turn a blind eye to the proceedings when well-paid. His own flight from Poland and his less than warm welcome from his English mother's relatives were the memories that always followed the first. After three years of living with them, his speech had been carefully cultured though hard work and patience. Now, at 27, an apprentice physician at one of the most notorious mental institutions in the world, his hope was to improve upon his father's research.

"I'm sorry, Comissioner. You were saying...?" He straightened to meet the other man's haughty stare.

"I've been informed by the Royal Service Board that we are to expect a new patient, a second son of a Lord Ackles. Scots, I should think." His disdain was palpable.

"Am I to understand that this is a paying patient, sir?" The blood caked on the backs of Jared's hands was starting to flake off his skin. He held his pose and tried to ignore it.

"I should hope so. There was quite a scandal, I'm told, almost a year ago. The second son tried to kill his brother, heir to the estate _._ Almost succeeded, I hear. The estate's personal physician spent hours repairing fascia and muscle in the poor man's face. When questioned, he raved to his father that he had been trying to free his brother of _demons._ He'll be arriving later this afternoon to begin his tenure here. He was under private care in seclusion at the family holdings; however, several escape attempts and numerous _incidents_ have led to his stay here. I daresay his former physician can elaborate. You'll find his entrance paperwork in your office. I have retained you as his personal physician for the duration of his stay. Is this satisfactory?"

As if his answer could have been anything else. "Yes, sir. I'll review the file and meet with the patient after I've completed my rounds."

Dr. Wickham nodded curtly and turned on his heel. Turning back to look at the young doctor, he added, "I'll expect weekly reports on his progress. And Jared?"

His eyes snapped open in shock at the use of his given name. "Yes?"

"Don't turn your back on Jensen Ackles. His brother's betrothed called off their engagement. She faints at the sight of his face."

... ... ... ... ...

 Bethlam Royal Hospital's long and sordid history had long been the stuff of gossip and whispers, made no less imposing by the tall Doric columns that decorated its front entrance. The marble hall was cold and austere, even in high summer. A newer, cleaner facility in Broadmoor had been built in response to the reformers to house the criminally insane in the early 1860's, but many of the parish cases and paying patients were still housed here.

Dr. Padale hurried through the halls. He'd been busy dressing rat bites on a catatonic girl in the women's ward when he'd noticed the time. It was almost a quarter past the hour at which his new patient would have been received at the Admitting area in the Great Hall. The vast space was nearly empty but for a few patients, citizens, and cleaning staff. He stopped to stare at a new arrival, an unfortunate whose moaning cacophony was punctuated by rapid thumps as the back of his head left bloody marks on the cold marble.

His rage stoked to burning, he shouted across the space at a thick-set man leaning against one of the columns.

"You! Simon Green!" He stalked forward to grab the orderly's shoulder, only to have the man fall forward, vomiting profusely across his chest, as well as the floor. The man's weight forced him hard to the ground, slamming his back onto the cold tile. Dazed, though thankful to have moved quickly enough to have prevented his head from hitting the ground, he groaned under the dead weight of Green's bulk. He began to struggle for breath, his chest tightening under the strain of pressure. His vision was starting to go grey at the edges when the weight on his chest lifted and a pair of strong hands tugged at his armpits to pull him upright.

Jared's eyes closed against the stench of rancid beer and vomit coming from the unconscious orderly. Kneeling, he slapped ineffectually against the staining on his legs before noticing the young man who had stooped to help him.

Dressed fashionably, but not foppishly, the man had long hair pulled into a queue at the nape of his neck. His immaculate linen and the otherwise expensive cut of his clothing marked him as a probable patron of the hospital. Although the institution had once charged visitors for the privilege of looking at (and inciting) the patients, young wealthy visitors were now rare.

Jared stood uncomfortably, cracking his back in the process. His hair was mussed, and his pants were covered in grime. "I am sorry, sir. I sincerely apologize for any distress Mr. Green's indecent behavior might have caused you. This is most _certainly_ not a usual incident."

"I would hope not, given this institution's _reputation_ for such excellent care." The words were mocking, but mild. The visitor's eyes were a beautiful green, and he smiled slyly at Jared before looking across the room to the matron at the Admitting desk, staring in shock at the scene.            

"You, Nurse!" His tone was loud and commanding, carefully intoned to show his disdain.

            The matron walked to them, her shuffle unsteady and her linen stained and wrinkled.

"Yes?"

            "Don't you dare take that tone with me. Find a bucket and clean this mess, and have _someone_ remove this pile of filth from the floor." He nudged at Green with his boot.

            "Right away, sir." She jumped to scurry across the hall, presumably to find help.

            Jared swallowed against his rising fascination with the visitor. "Again, sir, I apologize. The weekend staff can be a little lax in their methods, although I can assure you that this is not commonplace." He realized after an uncomfortable moment that his companion was staring into his eyes, eyebrow cocked, with a curious half-smile.

            He cleared his throat and extended his hand. "Welcome to Bethlem Royal Hospital, sir. Please excuse the informality of this introduction. My name is Dr. Jared Padale, assistant physician. If you'll excuse me, I must check with Admitting. I was expecting a patient when Mr. Green and I had our unfortunate collision." For a moment, he felt like a professional again, and squared his shoulders.

            His exit, a carefully executed spin on his heel, probably would have looked less dramatic if the visitor had not still been holding his hand. He stared dumbly at their palms pressed together and prayed for a moment that he wouldn't swoon.

            The young man stepped closer, inches away from his face, and smiled into his eyes again. "I don't think we need to put a further strain on your Admitting services, Doctor Padale." His thumb swept across the back of Jared's hand.

            "Jensen Ackles, of Cameron Close. It's an absolute _pleasure_."

... ... ... ... ...

            "Oh God." Jared bit back a groan, slamming his head into the paneled wall behind him.

            Sweet brown eyes smirked upwards, smiling for the briefest second around his cock as he thrust harder, faster.

            Jared's skin was slick with sweat, and his belly heaved as he gulped for air. Just as his thrusts began to become uneven, his lover kissed the tip of him and pulled back.

            "John, please!" he gasped. "I'm begging! Don't tease!"

            "Good things come to those who wait, Jared." Smirking, John licked a slick line from the root of his cock to his balls, sucking and rolling them gently in his mouth as his finger traced insistent patterns in the cleft of Jared's ass. Grabbing his hand, John rolled them against the counterpane, pulling him to kneel upright against the bottom of the four-poster.

            "Grab the bolster and don't move."

Jared panted with the effort of holding still. He was ready to explode from the strain of it. He sought the reflection of his own eyes in the mirror on the wall. The grated fire tinted the skin of he and his lover with gold, and for the first time he could see the crescent-shaped bite marks against the darker skin of his nipples. There was a purplish one beginning to blossom against the line of muscle by his groin. His cock throbbed against his belly, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat. John's face appeared behind him as he sucked a fresh bruise into Jared's shoulder.

            "Do you want to watch...?" John's voice was silk against his skin. His oiled fingers brushed against Jared's ass, the tip of one sliding just the smallest bit into the tight ring of muscle.

            "Do you want me to fuck you hard while you watch yourself explode?" Tiny sucking kisses now, pressed into the nape of Jared's neck as a second finger joined the first.

            Words failed him. His eyes were wild and wide, watching as the strange man in the mirror with his face fucked wantonly back onto John's fingers. His hips snapped harder, trying to pull John in tighter.

            The velvet voice was even softer now. "Tell me what you want, Jared. Tell me what you want, or you can't have it..." The fingers pulled out of his ass completely, circling and teasing the rim, dipping inside for brief moments before pulling out again.

            "Fuck me...oh god, please fuck me...."

He bit into his arm to keep from screaming as his lover's cock slammed into him completely. His arms strained against the bolster by his head as he struggled to move in tandem. It was fascinating to watch the intermingling of dark and light in the mirror, his darkness against John's white gold hair. His eyes caught John's steely gaze.

            "Touch yourself. I want you to touch yourself for me." John reached around to capture Jared's mouth awkwardly with his own. His teeth nipped against Jared's lower lip, tongue easing over the tiny sting.

            Jared's hands were slick with sweat and precum; they felt alien against his skin. He watched the tableau in the mirror as though from a distance, stroking, scrubbing hard against his own flesh, his cock purple in the dim room. The rush of quicksilver came low in his belly as John pushed them forward and down. It was enough to make him scream against his arm again, the angle pressing rough and sweet against a spot inside him that made his vision blur at the edges. He only dimly felt his lover's teeth sink into the corded muscle of his shoulder. He came in hot spurts against his shaking hands, the tightness inside pulling, squeezing in counterpoint to his rhythm.

...

            He might have slept. It could have been moments or hours later when he felt John move, pulling free of him gently. Jared shook the sting of sweat from his eyes and stood gingerly, wincing as his muscles protested the movement. He moved quickly, pulling up step-ins and trousers with a speed born of long practice. He didn't glance towards John again until he'd finished adjusting his waistcoat, grabbing his jacket from the chair next to the bed.

            "You don't have to leave, Jared. You know that you could stay." John's eyes were closed, his tone wistful.

            Jared chuckled. The conversation was familiar, with a few variations. He leaned across the bed, brushing a kiss against his lover's mouth.

            "While I'm sure that I would definitely enjoy further...amusements, lover, I would say that perhaps your time might be better served in preparation of tomorrow's Mass. Besides..." He settled his heavy overcoat across his shoulders and pulled up his collar. "I would say that this serves as the best arrangement right now." He didn't have to look for the envelope; John had never forgotten. He tucked it into his breast pocket, glancing quickly into the mirror to smooth his hair back from his face.

            To Jared's surprise, the man grabbed for his hand, holding it loosely between his own.

            "Do you ever think...that if we might have known each other, in a different place, things might have been different?"

            Jared sighed. He'd been expecting this, though it was later in coming than he'd anticipated

            "Forgive me, Father. I have a new patient expecting me."

            John's grip tightened.

            "I'll see you at Mass tomorrow, then?"

            Jared didn't answer.

... ... ... ... ...

            The hospital was quiet in the late evening hours, odd after the constant cacophony of the day. Padale wasn't surprised. Laudanum mixed with the evening's meal quieted the most difficult patients, and it was no secret that the drug was widely abused by the night staff, who were unwilling to attend to any noise or disruption that might remain.

           Jared's office, a former apothecary's stillroom, was bitterly cold. The coal stove in the corner of the room was a merely a formality. The cold drafts from the cracked window casings and damp stone wall prevented any interior heating from penetrating to the desk pushed haphazardly into a corner of the room. He pulled a chair as close to the stove as possible before picking up the discarded Ackles file and settling down to read.

           As far as records went, it was surprisingly brief. Born the second of three children, Jensen Ackles had been educated in London, and had spent almost 7 years in the army, serving in India during the rebellion before finishing his consignment. He'd returned to Scotland almost a year previously, helping to run the estate as his brother's factor before the incident.

            Of the incident itself, there were no details. Jared was unsurprised. Medical records were notoriously spotty for many patients. His predecessor's own records were stained and spotted with ink, nearly illegible in many places. He'd have to take a more detailed history himself tomorrow. The last slip of paper in the file fluttered to the floor, landing perilously close to a sticky-looking stain. Snatching it up, he scanned it quickly, eyes widening as he began to re-read more slowly.

            It was a commendation from one Captain Robert Singer, addressed to the Hospital Commissioners, praising Lieutenant Ackles for service under his command, with a forwarding address in London to which all hospital bills should be sent.

            Jared snorted. Now _that_ was definitely odd, though not unexpected, he conceded, after imagining what Ackles' current relations with his family must be.

            His knee slammed into the corner of the stove as a scream cut through the night. Cursing and hopping in agony as the waves of pain began to recede, he grabbed for a lamp before sprinting down the hall.

...

            The paid wards were cleaner than the rest, but only just. The funds provided by the families of paying patients usually went to the salaries of the ward's own legion of washerwomen, orderlies, and matrons, often to the detriment of the other souls in less fortunate circumstances. Each room was modestly furnished, a nod to the status of its patients. The hall blazed with gaslight, also odd considering the late hour. He sprinted towards the last door on the left, the only one open to the hall.

            The shrieking was a constant wail now, grating in his ears as he rounded the turn into the room.

            He wasn't the only body in the cramped space; he'd burst past two orderlies. A matron holding a retractor key whimpered as he pulled her out of the way. Green eyes flecked with gold met and held his own.

            "Good evening, Doctor Padale."

            "Hello, Lieutenant Ackles."

            "I must say what a pleasure it is to have the opportunity to make your acquaintance again. Thank you for the use of the title, although it's entirely unnecessary." Jensen's easy words belied his rigid posture. He crouched easily over the body of a panting orderly on the floor. His thumb was pressed almost to the first knuckle in the man's eye socket, partially obscuring his other hand, which was pressed over the man's profusely bleeding nose.

            "I was just having a conversation with your staff, Doctor. They were under the unfortunate impression that forcing a gentleman's mouth open to suck down a heavily dosed drought of ale is common practice in polite society." His thumb moved a fraction of an inch, and the orderly screamed.

            Jared's staff was used to unquestioned obedience. Patients who refused medicine were held down by two staff members as a matron forced a metal "key" into the back of the mouth. Curved at the tip and steeply angled, when the handle was turned, the patient was forced to open their mouths for the prescription at the risk of losing teeth. Several dozen broken and cracked molars in other wards were attributed to the frequency of its use.

            "I suggested to this man that perhaps after a conversation with a reputable apothecary or practicing medical man that I might be induced to take any prescriptions offered. However, considering his drastically inappropriate response, I felt that immediate action might be necessary." He grinned boyishly, his eyes never leaving Jared's. They could have been having the same conversation over tea.

            Jared sucked in a deep breath.

            "Matron, please remove your staff. I'm sure that Lieutenant Ackles and I can come to an acceptable compromise concerning his medication."

            There was only a token protest as the room cleared faster than he would have believed possible.

            Ackles was a study in poise; he straightened, smoothed his waistcoat and walked calmly to the basin to wash his hands before turning to face his physician, smiling slowly. The small room suddenly felt even smaller, and Jared was sure the temperature had risen several degrees.

            "I must admit, Doctor, I'm surprised you're still here. You're not afraid I'll hurt you?"

            Jared swallowed, his voice coming out less steady than he would have liked. "I've no personal experience that would suggest you would do me any violence."

            Jensen's smile didn't waver. "Would you like one?"

            Jared was stunned for several moments, then stammered, "I...would be forced to document such an incident as counterproductive behavior and see that you suffered appropriate consequences."

            Jensen's eyebrows rose the tiniest bit. "Now that doesn't sound all bad, Doctor Padale."

            "I assure you, Lieutenant Ackles, you do not want to provoke a punishment."

            "Is that a threat, Doctor Padale?" Jensen began to walk slowly toward Jared, still smiling.

            "No, sir, it's a promise." Jared was suddenly aware that his breath was coming quicker.

            "Ah." Jensen stopped about a foot away from where Jared stood and instead sat down on the edge of his bed, leaning back on his elbows. "Well, in that case, I wish to assure you, Doctor Padale, that you are correct: I would not do you any violence." His eyebrows rose slightly again.

            "That is...unless you _asked_ me to."

 

 

TBC...

 

 

 


	2. The Cell

 

**Chapter II - The Cell**

  
__

            _He thought he could hear the whine of Sepoy bullets over the thick pounding of his own heart in his ears. The screams of dying men and horses in the hills behind him dimly registered in his mind from what felt like the opposite end of a very long tunnel. His sunburned skin was ashy under the reluctant tan, save for the coppery red rivulets of blood streaming from the wound high on his shoulder. Every step his large bay horse took was a jarring reminder of the agony of ripped flesh and broken bone as he struggled to stay upright in his saddle._

_Hordes of gnats and blackflies swarmed over the open wounds of fallen soldiers, enticed by the foul smell of blood and human excrement. Jensen's nose was filled with the smell of it, and as he watched a rat come to investigate the bleeding face of another man, he vomited quietly down the side of the saddle._

_The heat and sluggish bleeding of his shoulder, combined with a day's worth of exhaustion and battle, turned his desperate need for water into a religious pursuit. The cries from the ground around him began to sound muted and ethereal, as if he were hearing them in a dream._

_"Water! Please, for the love of God, does anyone have any water?"_

_"Water..."_

_"So thirsty..."_

_His horse moved into a choppy trot, turning its nose towards a bank of tall reeds. The small river beyond them was a muddy irrigation site, packed with more bodies that bled slick trails of red into the slow-moving current. The bay moved further into the middle of the river and eagerly dipped its head to drink._

_Jensen was past the point of tears. He stared, hypnotized, at the moving water beneath him, ignoring the searing pain in his arm to lean toward it..._

_Pop! Pop!_

_A second wave of bullets cut the horse from under him, plunging the rearing animal into death throes that finally knocked him loose from the saddle. The water closed over his head as the weight of the horse sucked him under._

 

**London, England - 1863**

**Bethlem Hospital**

 

            He couldn't breathe. Something pulled at him and he instinctively fought it, arms coming up to grapple with the unseen attacker. His eyes snapped open as his fist connected with a heavy jaw, then fumbled for the pistol he kept under his pillow. Panic swelled in his chest when he realized it wasn't there.

            "Oww! _Spieprza_ _j_! Lieutenant Ackles! Wake up, man!"

            The dimly lit room flickered in and out of focus, and Jensen realized he wasn't alone.

            "Lieutenant, it's Doctor Padale. You're in the ward at Bethlem Royal Hospital. Do you remember?"

            Jensen's heart slowed imperceptibly, and he blinked as his surroundings became clearer. His skin was clammy with cold sweat, his legs were tangled in the cheap linens on his bed, and Doctor Padale stood next to it, looking down at him. The soft, practiced tone of the doctor's voice simultaneously reverberated in his ears and grated on his nerves.

            "Are you alright, Lieutenant?" he asked. "Would you like-"

            "Why yes, I'm absolutely _wonderful_ , Doctor. I'm in a fucking nuthouse, surrounded by fucking nutcases, and I've got sincere doubts as to the possibility of ever seeing freedom again. I'd say that constitutes a _fine_ handle on the situation, wouldn't you?" He freed himself from the sheets and threw his legs over the side of the bed, letting his head drop forward into his hands.

            Padale gave no answer, but Jensen felt could feel the doctor's steady gaze on him, a mixture of genuine concern and curiosity. After several long moments, he looked up.

            "It's rude to stare, Doctor. I would've thought that as a professional, you were aware of this."

            "I apologize." Padale nodded once, slowly, though it was clear that his apology was less about remorse than about making sure the conversation went in the direction he wanted it to. "It seemed that you were having a nightmare, and I wondered if you might want to discuss it."

            "I don't." Jensen's eyes darted around the tiny bedroom, the door of which was open to the small sitting area outside. A fire blazed just beyond his sight, throwing shadows across the floor. He'd intended for the finality of his tone to prevent any further questions, but he had to ask one of his own when he noticed that the table standing in front of the fireplace was covered with books and loose papers. "What are you doing in here?"

            Nervousness surfaced on Padale's face. "I...was hoping to finish my case notes in peace and avoid succumbing to hypothermia in my own study. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

            Jensen stretched sinuously, shoulders popping. "Case notes on what? Anything interesting?"

            Doctor Padale didn't answer, his gaze fixed on the puckered scar and blackened skin of Jensen's shoulder.

            "Where did that happen? In the war?"

His voice had that tone again. Jensen was getting tired of it. He gritted his teeth in annoyance, then lifted one corner of his mouth in a half smile.

            "Take off your shirt."

The look of horror on Padale's face was worth the effort of making sure that smile didn't slip.

            "I beg your pardon?! I will not!"

            In a flash, Jensen moved from his bed to stand flush against the other man's chest, nose-to-nose with him. He could feel Jared's breath on his face.

            "Once again, Doctor, I'm surprised. Weren't you warned about me?"

            "I don't like to judge a man until I've seen the merits of his actions for myself." Padale held Jensen's gaze, his body relaxed. "I've spent enough time here to know that things aren't always as they seem."

            "I tried to kill my brother."

            "So I've been told."

            There was no change, no fear. Though he was slightly disappointed, Jensen had to give the man credit. He was either remarkably secure, or incredibly stupid. He broke their stare and moved away from Jared, turning to face the bed again.

            "Meerut, India. In ‘57. I was shot during the second wave of the rebellion." He willed himself not to flinch as Padale stepped closer, his fingers tracing the line of scarring.

            "This isn't from the first shot." His finger moved over the thickest scar.

            "No. They held me down while they dug the bullet fragments out of my shoulder. Almost died of fever." Jensen didn't like uninvited touching. It was too unpredictable. He shrugged Padale's fingers off, facing him once again. "You're very good at hiding it, you know. I would never have guessed you weren't English if you hadn't cursed at me."

            The doctor paled. "Fuck you."

            "With pleasure."

            Padale refused to take the bait, hurrying to gather his papers. Jensen pressed further.

            "What are you then? Slavic? Russian? Polish?"

            "English."

            "You lie."

            "What does it matter to you?" The words were forced out from between clenched teeth.

            "It doesn't. A matter of interest, really. It occurs to me that I have no control over how long I'm going to be stuck in this hellhole. I'd like to know something about the man who holds my life in his hands." He extended his arm toward the door, indicating that the doctor was free to go.

            Padale didn't move. The conflict in his expression was undeniable.

            "Polish." The word hung in the air like a curse.

            Jensen shrugged, feigning indifference. He moved to the basin and poured cold water over his hands, splashing his face and scrubbing his cheeks, which were rough with stubble. He smirked at his reflection in the mirror over the washstand before looking back at Jared.

            "An' wha' would your name ha' been, then?" He chuckled, the Scots rolling off his tongue in a rush of forgotten memory.

            Padale stared in helpless disbelief.

            Jensen continued, "My father bought his way into a title. I was educated in London, and my tutors were English. He made sure of that." He smiled wolfishly. "I haven't spoken Scots to anyone since my mother died."

            Jared looked torn, but still said nothing.

            Too many moments of silence passed for Jensen's taste. He decided he was too exhausted to continue on and stretched out on the bed, rolling to face the wall.

            "I guess I don't have to tell you to close the door on your way out, then?"

            A few more seconds of silence, then: "Padalecki. My name. It was...Padalecki. I was advised to change it...after."

            The door clicked shut, and Jensen was alone again.

            Doctor Jared Padalecki. Fascinating.

            He slept.

~~~

            He woke again at dawn, a habit he'd become accustomed to while in the army and never really lost. Dull, gray light was creeping slowly through the room. He swung out of bed to examine his surroundings. 

            The room was pitched oddly, tilted towards the hearth wall as though one side of the room were sunken into the floor. Tiny barred windows stretched along the wall above his head, the panes dirty and cracked. The furniture was minimal, ancient and secondhand. Aside from the bed, two small chairs flanked an uneven table on a threadbare rug. A tiny wardrobe stood in the corner, the only contents of which were another set of linens and a chamber pot. His own boxes of belongings were stacked off to one side, having already been subject to close scrutiny by the staff. All patients' personal articles were generally checked for weapons upon arrival, although the practice was more often used to determine their degree of value.

            The door to the ward was the most solid thing in the room. Made of hardwood and flanked by bands of green tinted iron, there was a small flap near the bottom to allow for the passage of meals. He could dimly hear the conversations of the nursing staff as they moved up and down the hall. Breakfast arrived unceremoniously: a tin plate bearing a scoop of porridge, and a cup of lukewarm coffee. As Jensen stooped to pick it up, he was filled with longing for the Close; the odor of the damp soil, the warm, mealy smell of toasted bannocks and honey, and the fragrant scent of lavender he would forever associate with his mother.

            Something in his stomach turned over, and he mentally waved the lavender away. Thinking of his mother was too painful, a deep hurt still unhealed.

            "Ackles!" came a voice from right outside the door. "You will present yourself for inspection!"

            The heavy tumblers moved in the lock, and Jensen was faced with a stout woman in a starched apron whose face was even more severe than the sound of her voice. She was flanked by two mail orderlies.

            "Welcome to Bethlem, Mr. Ackles. You will submit yourself to examination and new patient orientation, after which you will receive your work assignment from Matron. You will follow these gentlemen to the bathing wards. Do you understand these instructions?"

             Without waiting for a response, the two men moved into the room to grab his arms.

             Jensen stepped back. "I am quite capable of walking of my own volition."

             She stiffened. "That remains to be seen."

             The hallway was a maze of activity, crowded by patients and nursing staff. Jensen watched in sick fascination as another man wound several lengths of string around his fingers over and over again. His expression was vacant, and heavy scars studded his temples.

             The door directly opposite Jensen's was open, and the staring face of a young girl peered out at him. She was filthy, and her slack expression was startling. When she noticed him staring back at her, she scurried quickly back into her room, out of his sight.

             "What's wrong with her?" he asked no one in particular, as a heavy weight settled into his stomach.

             "She's an experimental patient. Confined for immoral actions."

             The bathing wards were a nightmare beyond Dante's vision. Separated by sex, orderlies in damp uniforms stripped adults and children alike of dirty clothing and scrubbed them from head to toe with lye soap. Heavy caulked tubs full of steaming water stood ready as buckets were filled and tossed over shivering patients. Several larger tubs stood at one side of the room, filled to the brim with cold water and ice as those submerged in them screamed to be released. The room was a cacophony of sound: howls and moans intermingled with whimpers and crying.

             Jensen was too overwhelmed to do more than submit to the harsh scrubbing. One orderly picked through his hair with a fine-toothed comb, searching for lice. At the shaving station, he jerked away from another heavyset orderly who came at him with a razor. Someone grabbed a fistful of his long hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat as the metallic glare of a pair of scissors flashed before his eyes. He closed them.

             "God help me."

             He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until his benediction was answered.

             "God isn't here, man. You're in the Devil's territory now."

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

            The thick leather cover of the journal, though cracked from age and use, still smelled faintly of his mother's lavender and lemon verbena. It had been her daybook before her death, and contained page after page of her tiny, feminine handwriting. He ignored the lump that had formed in his throat from the familiar scent, angled the book to face the light of the guttered gas lamp, and dipped his pen.

_Mother,_

_Today, a man told me that I had entered Hell. If Hell were to be a place on Earth, I'd imagine that he was probably right. I don't know if I can ever describe the overwhelming miasma of fear and loneliness that haunts the halls of this place. I hope that any man left to even a measure of mercy should never have to suffer as these poor souls do._

_Adults and children live together here. This morning, I watched a large group of them herded like cattle into the freezing cold for an hour's exercise regime that left many with blue hands and feet. The youngest ones are kept running in the kitchens and scullery. One boy in the baths had cracked and bleeding hands from the boiling water and dish soap. Another little girl lost a thumb to a slippery butcher's knife._

_I've been assigned to the morgue as a daytime attendant. I now have the noble task of wrapping bodies in death shrouds and carrying them to the gravedigger's cart. The man himself has yet to show his face; several rotting corpses were already in residence by the time I had dropped off my own load. Other workers assure me that one becomes used to the smell, but I don't think the smell of death will ever become commonplace to me. Death in India smelled like burnt flesh and hot blood, baking skin in dirt fields. Death in England smells like shit and diseased flesh, and like the dampness of hospital walls. The maggots and the rats are ever-present. On the bright side (if it can be referred to as such), because of the "prestige" of my position, I have been given extra bathing privileges._

_My literacy and clear hand help here; tomorrow, I will add "assistant coroner" to my list of duties. I am expected to shadow the primary coroner, whom was also conspicuously absent today, and record his findings for the RBH and hospital governors. Earlier, as I neared the end of my shift, a child's body arrived. I expect I shall learn of his fate in the morning._

_After successfully completing my first day, routine is the only god that I am able to recognize here. I daresay you would have laughed to see someone finally wield barber's shears to my head - my scalp is now as bare as a hen's egg, though it itches in the cold._

_Sometimes, Mother, I wonder if I did not dream it all: the war, the death, the blood. Then I recall the evil that I have seen in men, evil that would shock anyone who has not lived it. It is present here. I pray that wherever you are, you cannot see how far your son has fallen. I have destroyed my life, and my brother's. In my dreams, I see the empty look in his eyes when I confronted the demon who wore his face. I found myself wondering if the man trapped in the body did not find it easier to let someone ride him like a horseman in the saddle. Was his life mine to save?_

****

_**Post scriptum** : I expect that I should have found it odd that my mother never pushed me unwillingly into the arms of any available woman. Though we never discussed my heart, or its pursuits, I hope to take this as a sign that you might have understood me._

_Yesterday, I met an intriguing man. He fascinates me in a way I can't explain.  In a house of mysteries, he is far from the only one, but with time and patience, I hope to discover more. My lusts are my own, although I have observed several behaviors that would lead me to believe he might respond in kind. I could never ask for your blessing in my soul's sins, but I hope that you can forgive me. I expect it would lighten my heart, as there are far too many other things for which I will never forgive myself._

_~ Jensen Ross, Bethlem Memorial Hospital, October'63._

 


End file.
